


Three loves of your life

by vierasfics



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, And she's the BEST, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aromantic John Barker Church, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Eliza is a witch, F/F, F/M, Gay John Laurens, Hanahaki Disease, Happy Ending, Historical Inaccuracy, Homophobia, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Internalized Homophobia, John Laurens Lives, John is very sad but he gets the love he deserves, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Period-Typical Homophobia, Polyamory, Pre-Poly, Queerplatonic Relationships, Seemingly unrequited love, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-07 07:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18616453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vierasfics/pseuds/vierasfics
Summary: Eliza is Gifted. Alexander has too many soulmarks. Angelica has learned to live with the flowers on her lungs. John can't live with the feathers on his.





	1. Best of wives and best of witches

**Author's Note:**

> idk what i'm doing i just needed something to fulfill my deepest need of seeing alex with his three soulmates and again ksdhfjks i'll respond to comments later

Eliza was nine years old when she discovered she was different. She and her family were at a social party when she shook hands with a nice man, and when the sight overtook her, she couldn’t hold herself, and she uttered; “oh, sir, it’s beautiful! I love butterflies!”

Eliza’s mother was asking her what on earth she was speaking of, when the man paled considerably, and said; “Cathy, dear, I didn’t know one of your children was Gifted.”

Needless to say Eliza was dragged out of that party merely five minutes after the fact, and after a tense, silent ride home she was sat on her bed and her parents told her to never, _ever,_ speak to people about their soulmarks again. Their faces were grim and serious and Eliza didn’t really understand, only could gather that other people didn’t see the pictures she saw when they touched someone else, and that it must be _bad,_ because her parents looked so frightened. Of her, perhaps? She didn’t ask. She just nodded her head and did as she was told.

The only person she spoke to about soulmarks was her sister. Late at night, when everyone was sleeping, Angelica and her would sneak into the kitchen and steal cookies and sit on the grass just outside the mansion to look at the stars and whisper about everything that was forbidden to whisper about.

Angelica told her seeing those pictures wasn’t bad, that she was special, and that her parents only wanted to keep the secret to protect her.

“From what?” Eliza said, anxious eyes looking away from the night sky and looking at her sister instead.

Angelica didn’t turn her head when she answered. “Bad people.”

She didn’t understand what she meant until two years later, when she broke the rule, and spoke to a boy about his laurel tree. He called her a witch.

"Angelica, what is a witch?"

Angelica's face was suddenly very serious. Angelica was never like this to her. "Where did you hear that word?"

Eliza shrugged, attempting to downplay its importance. "Just some kid at the park."

"Witches are..." she looked around, as if anyone could be listening in the middle of the night, and brought her voice even lower, "they're people who are Gifted, but they do bad things."

"Bad things?" she felt anxiousness grow on her gut. "Like what?"

Angelica hesitated. "Well, they- It's rumored they can hide soulmarks, or make fake ones."

"Why would-"

"Betsey," Angelica smiled nervously, "what's gotten you so curious? Please, let's talk of less somber things."

Angelica’s soulmark was a path of flames that adorner the side of her leg. Sometimes, when she liked someone, she would grab Eliza by her arm and, in a low, discreet tone, would ask her; “mine?” So Eliza would walk side by side with Angelica towards the person, and they would shake hands, or the man would lean over to kiss her knuckles, and it always only ever took one glance towards her sister; no words were ever exchanged, but Angelica could always read the answer on her eyes.

And Eliza was always on the lookout; for the person with the fire on their skin.

She met him when she was twenty three.

His name was Alexander Hamilton, and Eliza’s whole being sore into the sky the moment she saw him _._ He was vibrant, like the energy he carried inside was too big for the body he inhabited, like he had too much to do, too much to think, too much to feel. So Eliza walked to Angelica and puller her arm and whispered into her ear; “this one’s mine.”

Angelica introduced him to her, and as Alexander kissed her knuckles she didn’t see the fire. Instead, she saw flowers, the familiar sight of the lavenders embedded on her left ankle.

“Elizabeth Schuyler, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Alexander’s voice was sweet and melodic. Eliza didn’t hear the strain and heartbreak it carried. “Schuyler?”

“My sister,” said Angelica. Eliza didn’t see the longing on her face, the crippling misery just beneath the surface.

“Thank you for all your service.”

“If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it.”

He meant it. She knew he meant it. She did not know of the soldier that held his heart just as much as she did. She did not know of the flame his encounter with her sister had caused. There were so many things she didn’t know; so many things she thought she would know.

It took her a while, perhaps even her Gift was blinded in those few months of unmeasured affection, when nothing ever seemed to go wrong. Her father gave them his blessing without a blink. It wasn't until Eliza was on her wedding bed that her hands caressed Alexander's back, where her lavenders were, and she thought... _something is off_.

She couldn't place what, exactly, but a deep, instinctual feeling had taken root on her. The weeks, the months that followed only seemed to confirm it. Alexander was unfulfilled, unhappy, unsatisfied. Her rational mind attributed it to the war, to his ambitions, but there was more. He was unhappy with her, at home. He wasn't supposed be. Eliza held herself night by night, waiting for him to return, dread growing and growing on her heart.

The first clue was when she, distraught over his absence, reprimanded him for spending more time with his friends than his wife.

Alexander's reaction was abrasive.

"You cannot ask me to suppress my affections any further!"

"Alexander-"

"Please, Eliza, my Eliza," he held her face between his hands. He was shaking. "You must understand. I-"

"I want to understand," she brought her own palms to his knuckles, "Alexander, please, isn't this enough? Am I not enough?"

"Don't say that," he turned away. Eliza grabbed his wrist as he walked backwards into the doorframe. "Don't say that. I've sacrificed so much for you."

"Sacrificed? Whatever do you mean by that?"

His face turned dark. "Nothing."

"Alexander-"

"I must leave." He grabbed his coat. "I have so much work to do."

Later that night, when he was sleeping with his back turned to her, Eliza brushed her fingers over his soulmark.

Something was wrong.

She dragged her thumb through the purple, through the green. Wrong. Missing. Something was _missing_. She closed a fist around the image, and then-

Oh.

Eliza pulled away. An involuntary cry escaped her lips, and Alexander fidgeted. Alexander, who now had a _different_ mark slowly forming below her flowers. No. Not forming, Eliza realized, with upmost certainty. This had been here before.

Fire. Angelica's fire.

She felt tears forming on her eyes, before another picture came into view.

A bird, flying into the sky. She stared at it, attempting to place it. She'd seen it before, somewhere. It was warm and familiar, but she saw too many faces associated with too many marks, she couldn't remember who it was from.

Eliza didn't sleep that night.

She didn't say anything to Alexander the next day. She had almost convinced herself that it had been a dream, until he rolled over the next night, and the images were there, like they had never gone anywhere.

Now, as an adult, Eliza knew a little more of witches. Desperate people came to them, people with _sinful_ marks, who'd discovered they were bound to someone of the same gender, someone married, someone who was already matched, people with no soulmarks, people with too many. It was said that royal families would arrange the marks of their children to bind them to suitable partners.

Alexander. Her Alexander.

For three nights, Eliza passed her fingers through his back, and searched for that feeling, that dissonance that had caused her to reach out in the first place, but it was gone. It didn't make sense. Three marks. It was wrong. Why did it not feel wrong anymore? On the third night, she even tried to hide them again, but as soon as the feathers of the bird started to fade, her stomach turned, and she raced to the bin.

"Eliza?" Alexander's confused, sleepy voice echoed from his place on their bed. "Oh, love, what's wrong? Are you sick?"

In less than two seconds he was there, holding her hair and cleaning her mouth with his shirt. It took Eliza an enormous amount of willpower to look into his eyes. His expression was concerned; anguished, even. This was her mate. Her husband. Her Alexander.

And she realized, there was nothing wrong with him.

It was her, it was everyone else that was wrong.

"Alexander," she whispered, voice shaking, "Alexander, why didn't you tell me?"

"What?" he drew back; confusion and fear darkening his semblance. He placed a hand over her forehead, but he found no fever.

She pushed his arm away. "About your marks, Alexander."

"My-" he frowned, tilting his head to the side, "love, do you mean my scars? Forgive me, I didn't think they were important..."

His voice died off. He was still speaking, but Eliza could not hear him.

He didn't know.

His parents, she thought. His mother. She wanted to protect him. She did this to him. He was probably only a baby, an infant. He didn't know. He couldn't have known.

"Eliza, dear, are you feeling unwell? We should go back to bed."

She blinked at him. Hers. "You have more than one soulmark."

He drew back, and, after a tense moment, let out a laugh. An unamused one. "What? Eliza, please, you must be too tired, let's-"

"Alexander, I'm Gifted."

He stared at her, expressionless.

"You have three soulmarks. Two of them were hidden. I imagine your mother must have-"

Alexander stood up quickly, too quickly, as he stumbled and reached a hand back to catch his weight on the bed.

"Alexander-"

He turned to her with wide, vulnerable eyes. His voice was shaking when he spoke. "Oh, God, I've cursed three people."

"No, no," she reached for his face. His cheeks were wet with tears. She'd never seen Alexander cry before. "Alexander, Alexander, there's _nothing_ wrong with you, I can sense it, it was wrong to hide them, this is why you've been so unhappy with me-"

"I'm not unhappy-"

"But you're not _happy_. You're not fulfilled. How can you be, when you're missing two huge, important pieces in your life?"

"How can you be so calm about this?" he shook his head, grabbing unto Eliza's wrists like he needed an anchor. "What respectable life could I ever give you?"

"I don't want a respectable life," she nodded her head after her statement, realizing how true it was. "I want us to be happy. We don't need status, Alexander, we don't need money or a legacy or power. This is- You're enough. I just want you to feel like I do. I love you. And if you need two other people for that, I'm okay with it."

He gaped at her. "What would people even say, Eliza? I'm in the public eye, I can't just-"

"We'll make up a story!" she straightened up, determined. "You've always had your way with words."

He laughed, in-between tears, and hid his face on her torso as his arms encircled her. "You're so certain. How would _they_ ever agree to this?"

"Well..." she winced internally, "I happen to know one of them..."


	2. My dearest, Angelica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dIDN'T EXPECT PEOPLE TO LIKE THIS OMG TY HERE'S ANOTHER CHAPTER

It was early in the morning, with Eliza excitedly holding a letter and running up to her, that Angelica felt the first sting of pain on her chest. In the beginning, it was manageable, just a slight discomfort, the seed of something bigger and scary that grew with every passing day. She attempted to convince herself that it was nothing, a cold, perhaps, or she ought to drink more water, but even then she knew, even before she was hunched over the balcony, coughing leaves and petals as the people inside danced and toasted to the groom and bride.

There was a sense of finality when she held the first flower. Lavender, covered in blood.

People died from this. She knew that much. People died from being apart from their soulmate. She drew her knees close to her chest and clenched her jaw and tried not to scream. She did nothing to deserve this curse and yet here it was. Her soulmate was her sister's and yet Angelica knew she'll rather rot in dead lavenders than watch her Eliza do.

"I'm not going to die," she said to herself, to the night and the stars and to Alexander, even as he couldn't hear her.

And she didn't die.

Months passed and the flowers were still alive. They were bright purple and fresh and they never smelt of death. Angelica didn't understand how, but she didn't question it. She kept coughing up lavenders and she thanked her blessings and she learned to live with the flowers on her lungs.

Sometimes, when they reached her hands, their edges were burnt out, black and dry and coming apart at the touch, but they were never withered.

When she came back to the party that day, she found someone like her. 

He was standing beside Alexander. Her Alexander. No. Eliza's Alexander. He was standing next to him, and he suddenly brought his hand to his mouth, and Angelica could see from here, Alexander reaching out with concern and the man waving his hand dismissively and walking away. She followed him, she followed him to the back exit and watched as he leaned over the grass and threw up feathers. White, and red from something mortal. They were so many, and they smelt of death.

She wondered who this man loved so fervently. She wondered if it was Eliza.

She did not ask him. She turned around and silently prayed he would stay alive. 

She met John Carter just a few months after she met Alexander.

He was sweet, and he was rich, and with every second that she spent with him the guilt of the secret she carried would wear her down. Eventually, when he whispered promises of a new life and of marriage and of children, she showed him the flowers. 

John's expression was one of relief. His name, she learned, was not Carter. His name was John Church and his soulmark was unmatched, faked in lack of a real one. Together they found refuge in each other, a way to hide the cracks and the shards, so against his father's wishes, she got married. 

When Eliza came to speak to her, she had petals under her tongue. John was hunched over his desk, writing, and Eliza grabbed her arm and pulled her outside, to walk on the grass, and told her, "Angelica, please promise you will speak of this to no one but your husband."

"Betsey, what gossip are you bringing me?" 

Her smile faded as her sister's eyes turned serious. "Promise me this won't leave this house, Angelica."

So she promised. 

And so Eliza spoke of Alexander, and of the fire that was inked into his back. Eliza spoke of her husband's unsatisfaction, she spoke of her concern, asked Angelica if she had fallen ill, asked about the flowers. 

Alexander. Her Alexander. No. Eliza's Alexander. Angelica sat down on the bench close to them, and thought of John and thought of the flowers. 

"Angelica, please," Eliza insisted, persistent as she'd always been. Too kind for her own good. "You know this could kill you. And Alexander himself has been-" she looked away, as if she'd revealed something she wasn't supposed to. 

Angelica thought of Alexander hunched over and coughing lavenders. 

"I must speak to John about this," is what she said. 

She didn't speak of it for three days, until the first flower she held on her fingers was burnt to the brim, until it was withered and it smelt of death. She cried of it more than spoke, sobbed into her husband's arms as he rubbed her back and said; "it's alright. Perhaps he can give you the affection I cannot."

And then Angelica understood John didn't love her. At least, not like a husband ought to love his wife. And she also realized, that was okay. 

So Angelica took a carriage to the Hamilton's home, and she found Alexander (Eliza's Alexander. Her Alexander.) with his face over the trash can.

When he saw her, his eyes lit up. 

"Angelica," he mumbled out, coughed again, and then his arms were around her. "I'm so sorry."

She shook her head. Just by that instant, she understood how her sister had been so determined, so certain that this was the right thing to do. 

The next lavenders she coughed out were vibrant, alive, and burnt only on their edges, and after that, they were gone. 


	3. You're the closest friend I've got

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for internalized homophobia and that one bible passage

John always knew. Ever since he could remember he'd had fixations (affections) towards the people he wasn't supposed to (boys). Ever since he could remember he'd been uninterested ( _too_ uninterested) in women. And for a while, he didn't even know it was wrong. He spent hours staring at his collarbone on the mirror, at the small bird that appeared to be flying towards some place better, and when he imagined the other owner of the mark, it was always another boy. Perhaps he'd fantasized too much about it, because one time the wrong pronouns slipped from his tongue while talking to his father about his soulmate, and the result was a smack to his mouth and a lecture about sin.

Leviticus 18:22. His father had made him read this passage so many times he'd memorized it. It sprung back into memory every time a man appeared in his thoughts, like a child that's slapped on their wrist when they reach for candy. Except it wasn't candy. It was the sparkle on Alexander's eyes when he spoke of revolution, it was how his voice changed with excitement, how he moved his hands, it was his touch as he bandaged John's injuries, it was his breath, hot to the skin, as he whispered fearlessly of his devotion. 

Thou shall not lie with mankind as with womankind; it is abomination. 

It started with pain, an ache on his chest that never truly went away. His first reasoning was that God was punishing him for his thoughts, for his dreams, for the times he'd gotten drunk and renounced the teachings of his father, that Alexander and him had done things that would get them killed if anyone was to find out, for the times Alexander had told him there was nothing sinful about their love, and he'd believed it. 

The first feathers he coughed was after he and Alexander had their first big argument. They'd been apart for too long, after John was sent to South Carolina, and when he came back all the confidence Alexander had built inside him was in ruins. He pushed him away from a kiss and said everything that had already been said, about sin, about the threat of death, about their marks being different, and Alexander tried, even at their finals moments together he tried to convince him to change his mind. Stubborn to the bone, was what John said, before chugging a bottle of whiskey and tossing it to the ground, before retching into the sidewalk and staring dumbfounded at feathers instead of vomit.

 _God must really hate me_.

He let his weight fall into a nearby wall, until he was sliding down into the floor, and looked at how the cold night wind flew the feathers away. 

He'd never heard of someone with an unrequited soulmark, but of course it was him. He laughed without any trace of joy, and his chest constricted even more and he coughed again. There was no one else for him. No woman was going to show up with a bird on her skin and cure him. He felt stupid he'd hoped it would happen in the first place. 

Alexander got married before the war was over. 

John cried for hours on end, he laid on the floor and clutched at his chest and reprimanded himself; he'd known it was meant to happen all along.

The next trip he made to South Carolina sealed his fate. There was no way to hide his condition any longer, it was a miracle he'd been able to pass it as a cold to Alexander a few weeks back. So it was no surprise to him when his father introduced him to a young lady and told him "everything had already been arranged." 

Her name was Martha, and John didn't need to be a genius to see why she'd agreed to marry him. She had a close _friendship_  with a Mrs. Maria Reynolds, whose husband had apparently left her without a word and so Martha begged John to lend her money to help her get by. 

He didn't need any explanations. He saw the way they looked at each other. He heard the way they sneaked through the hallways at night when they thought him asleep. So he signed the checks and wondered if it spoke poorly of him that all he felt was sympathy. 

At least it got him on his wife's good side. 

He knew he was getting worse; there came days when he was barely able to move from the pain in his chest, but against logic he ran and he hid, unlike how he'd done during the battlefield. Alexander's letters laid on his desk, each time longer and increasingly more frequent. John had taken one of them, but as soon as _her_  name came up his coughing got so bad he couldn't breathe.

So he stopped reading them. 

Stubborn to the bone. Alexander showed at his doorstep several times. Couldn't he understand? There was no point, no good reason for them to meet. They'd have a slip up, you see, a few weeks back before John retreated home, they had been working and writing together as they'd done for so long, and they were close, almost as close as they had been, and perhaps John had a few glasses before. It didn't matter. They kissed, before Alexander's hands were clutching John's chest and whispering _her_  name and it was the first time Alexander had ever protested, and John realized, if he was to burn, he wasn't going to drag Alexander with him.

"John." It was Martha's voice that brought him out of his stupor. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting on his desk, ink by his side and nothing written. "May I speak to you?"

He sighed and dropped the quill. "Yes, of course, what is it, dear?"

Dear. Dear Martha. It was as close a pet name as he'd been able to muster. It felt noncommittal enough, like a letter to a distant relative. 

"I'm concerned for you," she walked a little closer to him, and, hesitating, placed her hands over his shoulders. It was as close an affectionate gesture as she'd shown. "I've noticed you've had, ah, health issues." 

Health issues. The ache on his chest flared up for a second, like it was laughing. "I'm fine, dear, nothing to worry about." 

Her grip on his muscles tightened just slightly. "John... you know you can..." she let the phrase trail off. He heard her take a deep inhale before speaking again. "I wouldn't object to anything you had to do to take care of your health, after all, I believe you've shown me the same courtesy." 

He lift of a hand to place it over her fingers. Odd, how they had this understanding that was unlike that of a married couple. "I know." 

"Good." She took a pause. "And about that gentleman that has been knocking on our doorstep yet you seem keen to ignore?" 

Her tone had become casual. Like they've changed the subject to something unrelated. 

John sighed again. "Has his presence bothered you?" 

"On the contrary," she replied quickly, almost cutting him off, "I am concerned. You should reward him for being so persistent, at least." 

"Stubborn," he mumbled, "stubborn to the bone." He turned around to look at her, and briefly wondered, how many other people had put two and two together, how many of his friends were merely playing along to the circus, not reporting them out of lack of evidence, or past loyalties. "Don't worry, dear, I'll take care of it."

He could tell she didn't want to drop it, but she nodded her head, and let go of him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was going to be the last chapter but i decided to make one or two (or three?) more sooooo eNJOY THANKS FOR READING <3


	4. Laurens, I like you a lot

It was summer when Alexander met Maria Reynolds.

He'd barely slept in a week, the pain on his chest didn't seem to lessen at all. White feathers haunted him day and night, although, at least intact now, not burnt and coming apart at the touch. John; he thought, he dreamt, he felt. One description of the mark on his back and he'd known, remembered the small bird on John's collarbone. He'd written him incessantly, he'd rode all the way to his doorstep despite Eliza begging him to stay in bed, despite Angelica imploring him to rest.

It was like that, as he was resisting the urge to go back to return to his wife's embrace in the middle of the night, hunched over his desk and frustratingly scribbling, knowing for once in his life words wouldn't solve anything, that he heard the knock to their door.

Maria Reynolds was only wearing a thin sweater over her dress, she was shivering, looking away, fidgeting in nervousness. "Sir," she said, "I'm so sorry to bother you at home at this hours, I know you're a man of honor, but- I don't know what to do, and I came here all alone."

Alexander ushered her inside. "Please, what's the matter, miss? What's your name?"

"Maria Reynolds," she looked around, as if she wished to stray her eyes away from Alexander. "Well you see, sir, my..." she hesitated, "...friend is very sick and, well, I've inferred perhaps you may be able to help him. He is, I believe, very dear to you as well." Doubt hung at the end of her sentence, almost like a question.

Alexander blinked several times, and passed a hand through his face to chase his tiredness away. "Well who is it that we're speaking of?"

When she spoke his name, she was significantly more tense. "Litenaunt Colonel John Laurens, sir." 

"John?" a flicker, and Alexander's expression morphed into apprehension. There was an edge to the way he'd spoken the name, almost in possession, belonging. _My John?_  was what Maria heard.

She relaxed. "Yes, sir, he's ill in ways no man should be. Mar- His wife has been very concerned, as you might imagine, as have I, and with the circumstances surrounding the two of you, we figured-"

Alexander narrowed his eyes. Maria didn't finish her phrase, opting to stop at the sudden mistrust on his stare.

"Forgive me if I've assumed wrong, sir," she finally said, "but, it appeared to me you're the only one capable of curing his affliction," she took a pause, before adding; "his wife would not mind, she has afflictions of her own." 

Alexander took a deep breath. For a few seconds, they simply looked at each other, and seemed to reach a silent understanding. 

Alexander took his coat from the hanger, and followed Maria outside. 

* * *

Although he did not ask, Alexander had assumed John had sent Maria, or, well, something to that extent.

He was wrong. 

They entered their home as intruders, silently and without knocking. He heard the sound of a woman speaking. John's wife, he reasoned, and then two figures came into view from the top of the stairs. 

Oh. 

Alexander felt the world tipping sideways. There he was, standing so close, finally, after so long. He looked tired, terribly so, in that way that cannot be solved by simply sleeping. For a few seconds, he was unaware; Alexander got to see him first. He was smiling, his eyes were quiet, attentive, as they were when Alexander and him would lay down past decent hours and Alexander would speak far too much and John would listen. John was the best listener, he had a manner to make Alexander feel like he was the center of their galaxy, his eyes would follow his movements and expressions and he would smile distantly like he was happy to just hear his voice. He was all about to stride towards him, moved by a primal force inside him, but felt Maria placing a tentative hand over his arm, as if reading his intentions. 

The moment probably didn't last as long as it had felt. Their eyes crossed, and the memories of better time fell to the ground. John paled, amusement gone, eyes wide and scared like he'd been caught red-handed.

"John," Alexander muttered, unable to say much else but that. He sounded shaky, uneven, the sole name not enough to carry all he felt.

The silence stretched.

Alexander had always hated silence. "John, I'm sorry for intruding, but you've left me little choice."

"Maria," John finally spoke. His voice was hoarse. "Pray tell, what business do you have bringing a married man into our home at these hours?"

Maria flinched backwards, just as the other woman, the one next to John, slapped his arm in reproach. He turned to her and she recoiled, like she was surprised by her own action.

"John," Alexander repeated. He cleared his throat, forced himself to say something else. Words couldn't betray him now. "Please, this was my idea, I'm the one deserving your anger."

John didn't turn to look at him. "Get out of my house."

Alexander walked forward, probably too quickly, as the other man backed a few steps. Nevertheless, they were closer, Alexander merely had to extend his arm to touch him. "John-"

" _Alexander_ -" 

And that was all it took. 

John's whole body shook with a shudder, then he froze, halfway into retreating, yet his eyes were fixed on him like he couldn't help himself. 

The woman, his wife, silently strode down the stairs. She took Maria's arm and guided her through a side door. Alexander heard the lock being turned. 

"John," he said for what felt like the hundredth time. 

John shook his head. He teared up, shifting again, almost flinching, but he merely took one single step away. 

"John."

"No," he managed. "Please, Alexander."

Slowly, Alexander reached to take his hands. John didn't stop him, but he closed his eyes and took in an unsure inhale.

He was shaking. 

"John." 

"Please," he started moving away, but Alexander was faster. He stepped forward, pulling at John's wrist until their torsos were touching. John's breath hitched loudly, and the tension he'd been holding left him quickly, perhaps too much so, almost like he'd fainted. "Stop." 

"I need to talk to you."

"There's nothing more to be said." 

He took John's chin with his fingers. A tear reached them instantly. "Then let me show you." 

"Alexander-" 

"Do you trust me?"

"What about-?" he gulped, bracing himself like it hurt too much to speak, "What about Eliza?"

Alexander's grip tightened for a moment. "Do you trust me?" 

"Alex-" 

"Jack."

John let out a laugh, finally opening his eyes. "You're so unfair." 

"Do you?" 

"Yes," he sniffed, pulling one hand away from Alexander's to wipe at his cheeks, "yes, I trust you, idiot." 

"Then let me show you." 

"Show me what?" 

"Trust me." 

"Alexander-" 

"John, _please_."

John took in a deep breath. He closed his eyes and looked up, then, finally, met his stare once again. 

 "Okay." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY I HAVEN'T ANSWERED COMMENTS I'VE BEEN BUSY BUT I'VE READ THEM THEY MADE ME V HAPPY PLS ILY ALL


	5. Raise a glass to freedom

John didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t for Alexander to ask to go to his bedroom and then take off his shirt.

"Alexander!" was, irreparably, his reaction. He blushed and looked away, about to open the door and flee before Alexander's clothing had fallen to the floor and-

He stared.

Something caught up in his throat.

There were a few moments in which he was unable to do anything. Alexander looked over his shoulder at him, nervously, but John was frozen, eyes wide and fixed on the so very familiar bird inked on his skin on the very same skin he'd traced so many times.

"I don't-" he finally managed, "please tell me they aren't- fake."

Alexander gave him a small smile, and shook his head. "My mother must've had hidden them when I was a child. Eliza is Gifted, John, she discovered them."

Eliza.

Her name was like a slap to his face. He toppled backwards, and Alexander seemed to realize his mistake, as he quickly turned around and grabbed his wrists. "John-"

"You're married. What is it that you're suggesting-?"

"I was told, today, by miss Reynolds, that your wife didn't find issue in you looking after your health."

John blinked at him.

"John, my wife, has been a little more, uh, unequivably forgiving of the matter."

Eliza had- John gulped. His chest, always constricted and pained, expanded and relaxed with his next breath. He'd had thought of them as wrong and impossible for so long, could it really be-?

"John," he felt the sweet touch of Alexander's fingers on his cheeks, wiping at tears he hadn't realized he was shedding, "I know this is an unconventional request, but would you let me show you, by actions, rather than by words, how much I love you?"

He laughed, as something new and joyful grew in the same places he'd felt pain. "Alex..." he whispered, watched as Alexander's eyes lit up at the old nickname, "Alex..." his voice turned quieter as he inched forward, and before he knew it, Alexander's lips were on his again, like so many other times, except now there was certainty over the action. He shuddered. He'd missed this so much, missed the way it made him feel alive. John pulled at Alexander's waist and Alexander at John's shirt, longing to be closer, both overwhelmed with insatiable hunger. They only separated for air, chests heaving and bodies shaking against one another.

"So..." Alexander said with a hoarse voice, "should I take that as a yes?"

John laughed again, as he rested his face over Alexander's shoulder and traced his hands upwards on his back, caressing his mark. He felt him shiver at the contact.

His mark. Alexander was _his_.

"Yes," he looked into his eyes. It had been a while since he'd felt so sure of something, as he'd felt during his efforts to abolish slavery when he fought in the South, as he'd felt when he'd challenged Charles Lee to a duel, as he'd felt each time Alexander and him went into the battlefield; no a doubt in his mind that he would die for him. "A million times, yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'M SORRY IS SHORT I'LL WRITE AN EPILOGUE LATER I HOPE THIS WAS SATISFYING


	6. Epilogue: Take a break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small sneak into the lives of the queer-est family in New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short but hopefully good?

Angelica left her house every morning at the same time her husband did. They would spend almost every night laughing and chatting over tea or liquor, before tiredness would set in and they would get a few hours of sleep. 

"Have a nice day at work," she said to her husband as they stood on their doorstep.

John Church always winked knowingly. "Have a nice day too."

And so every morning she left her house and knocked on the Hamilton's.

"Angelica!" Eliza opened the door every time. 

And every time she was overwhelmed in joy. "Eliza."

Hours with her sister flew by. It was in no time that the men were home.

* * *

John Laurens slept alone.

After Mr. Reynolds had filed a divorce, Maria was left with nothing. John had grown from feeling a kinship with her to friendship. Officially, Maria was a servant to his home. Privately, she was his wife's companion in her bed, and, in a strange way, part of his family. 

Each time he would leave for Congress, Maria would prepare him lunch, and each time he'd come back home, often late at night, Martha would hug him tight and ask about Alexander. 

Nobody questioned that John would bring his work to the Hamilton's home. John was, at least in everyone else's eyes, as Alexander was to George Washington. But in truth, once they stepped in and Eliza and Angelica had greeted them both with neverending enthusiasm, they ceased to be coworkers, and became something more akin to spouses. 

* * *

"Angelica, tell this man John Adams spends the summer with his family." 

"Angelica," Alexander was quick to retort from his place on his desk, "tell my wife John Adams doesn't have a _real_  job anyway."

Beside him, John snickered. 

"Alexander," Angelica placed her hands over her hips, "won't you join us upstate?" 

"I'm afraid I can't." 

"Alexander-" 

"Jack will stand by me." 

John lifted his head from his own paperwork. "Don't meddle me into your conflicts." 

"Ha!" Angelica cried out, patting John in the back as a comrade, "John knows we are right, you've stretched yourself thin." 

"You've barely slept in weeks," Eliza joined in. Alexander stared at them both in hopelessness. He was outgunned. "You deserve a break." 

"Jack, where are you when I need you?!" 

"Alex," John looked at him again in a mocking manner, "a little rest wouldn't kill you." 

"You _traitor_ , unbelievable." 

"Then it's decided," Eliza pulled at Alexander's arm to pull him out of his chair, "you better start packing." 

"I never agreed to this!" 

"Too bad," Angelica poked his nose whilst smirking, "this is a democracy." 

"John," Eliza suddenly exclaimed, "ah, you ought to come, bring Martha, and Maria!"

He looked at her in surprise. "Won't it look odd?" 

"Nonsense, my family trusts me too much." 

"Yes!" Angelica was quick to add, "how odd would it be? Our families are friends."

"But we still have so much  _work_ -" 

" _Alexander_ ," the three of them said at once, and then laughter filled the room. 

* * *

(Eliza had eight children, all of them, Alexander's. Angelica also had eight, although she did not know which ones were her husband's, and which Alexander's, but it mattered to none. John had only one that he and Martha had in efforts to stop rumors about their marriage. It worked, and nevertheless, he loved his daughter in a way he never thought he could. 

Their family was odd, fractured even, unorthodox in ways that had to be kept hidden, but none of them would've had it any other way.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for sticking with me till the end <3 i hope you enjoyed the ride

**Author's Note:**

> was this poetic and romantic or forced and awkward i can't tell  
> doesn't matter cause it's self indulgent anyways


End file.
